


John, Meet Francis

by hamildooodles



Category: 18th Century CE RPF, American Revolution RPF, Hamilton - Miranda, Historical RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-08
Updated: 2020-10-08
Packaged: 2021-03-07 16:08:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,693
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26900404
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hamildooodles/pseuds/hamildooodles
Summary: A quick one-shot of John Laurens and Francis Kinloch's first time meeting in Geneva.
Relationships: Francis Kinloch (1755–1826)/John Laurens, John Laurens/ Francis Kinloch
Kudos: 5





	John, Meet Francis

“Hey.”

I jerk my head up, tobacco pipe still clamped down between teeth. I lift my chin in acknowledgment, soundless expression on my face impatiently asking what the kid wants. 

“Just hey,” he says, smile remaining intact despite my less-than-friendly countenance. 

I half roll my eyes, not wanting to start a fight, but simultaneously sliding hints that I’m not interested in a friend. 

The boy to my right steals the pipe from out between my lips. I scowl a little, but it’s in jest and he knows that. I take a half-empty bottle from him as contraband, tipping my head back to finish what he left behind. His frame is much thinner than mine, and the way he doesn’t berate me says more about how he’d rather not vomit than get fucked up. 

The man still lingers around with a dumb smile. It broadens when we make eye contact, turning my lips in the opposite direction. “If you want a smoke, a drink, just sit down,” I stare flatly. 

He does as I say, sitting on the other side of me, hand extended to grab the bottle. I raise a brow in question of his gall, pulling the bottle back toward my body and out of his reach. He lunges at me, hand gripping around mine, gripping around the bottle. 

“Who do you think you are!” I snap, not so much a question at all. He laughs, stacking his other hand on the neck of the bottle above our two. He pulls it out of my grip with force and snatches it to his lips, draining the rest in two gulps. “Francis,” he states, pressing the empty bottle back into my palms, confidently and cocky. 

I scowl and chuck it, far enough away, but with enough anger that it shatters into little pieces of green translucence across the pavement. I see Francis and the other boy stiffen, almost scared. “You owe me for that shit,” I bark at Francis’s smug, and slightly terrified face, accentuating the latter proudly. I grip the boy’s thigh to my right, “Actually you owe him.” Francis’s eyes lock on my hand. I don’t move it. 

He opens his mouth to speak, then closes it again. Instead, he rises to his feet, holding a hand down to mine. “Come with me? I’ll buy you anything you like, right now. Replacement, no charge.” I stand on my own. 

…

At the corner store, we weave in and out of aisles without a word. Out of spite, I search for the most expensive bottle of ale, within reason, of course. I hand two large bottles of ale to Francis, “Mine and his.”

“I keep my word,” he says, smiling up at me, wavy dark hair serving as a perfect frame for pale green eyes. I look down when I realize I linger there. 

I move around him, headed toward the counter, yet he does not follow me. I watch him wander to the imported shelf, searching almost like he memorized the shelves of a liquor store at a mere eighteen years. 

“Reminds me of home,” he says quietly, contrasted to his abrupt turn around to face me. He holds a bottle of whiskey. Truly an American trend, I begin to understand. Francis’s accent suddenly stands out like a sore thumb. He must be the fellow Carolinian my father wrote me of. “Kinloch…?”

He smiles, “Yes, my surname.” He shoves the whiskey in my hands as he struggles to carry all three bottles to the counter. I follow, still comprehending what my father would make of my rudeness to a fellow southern brother. 

He breaks the seal on the whiskey as soon as he’s sacrificed his wallet. “Your friend. I hope. Accepts my gesture.” The pauses mid-sentence make me shift in my boots, sudden realization slowing my pace and increasing my heartbeat. 

“Why’d you come to the corner, Kinloch?”

“Ah doesn’t everyone know the reputation of that corner?”

I sneer, “Just arrived in Geneva and you think you know it all, huh?”

He slides a glance up and down my body, “I do. I think I know you.” His walk halts and he almost drops the paper bag full of bottles on the pavement. 

“And I’m not wrong in assuming the same,” I whisper, backing him up against a wall without use of my hands. 

“Absolutely not,” he says ever so quietly, drawing a hand up to pull the ribbon out of my queue. 

I rush forward, knocking him back against the wall, I hear the bottles clank against each other, but no breaking glass can be heard. Hands drag all over him, his in my hair, lips locked on each other’s. “You’re not gonna fuck him again, are you?” he gasps, and I see the jealously has fueled this whole trip. “Not if you can prove yourself better, Carolina boy.”

…

I watch him tear off his clothes quickly in the dim candlelight of my dorm. No roommate to bother us, I keep the door locked, although it should not be a surprise to anyone on this floor if they were to hear. My reputation in Geneva has certainly carved out a different man. 

“Now you,” he says, emboldened in a state of anti-modesty. I stare back, admiring the flesh I’m about to have as all mine. He grabs my lapels, impatient, and I smile, “I think you’d rather do the job yourself, Kinloch.”

He makes a noise deep in his throat as he divests me of all layers, lips on mine, hardly taking a moment to keep it slow and sensual. I push us on the bed as he works at my breeches. Succinct and efficient, he bares me to just undergarments, hand readily over my flesh. He’s desperate for me and I love every second. 

He drags a warm and wet tongue down my chest, fingers pulling tantalizingly slow at the waistband of all that separates skin on skin. I watch him open his eyes for the first time as I push his mouth lower on my body. I drop my head backward on the pillow, ready for him to please me like he wants. He gasps, low and quiet. Then he stops. His lips go slack against my lower belly, hands next. His gaze remains frozen and focused on me. Picking my head up, I “hmmm” at him, and pull his chin up toward my face. There’s a hollowness in his eyes that I don’t understand. I do not speak, but express frustration in his slowness, dropping my grip from his face and pushing his head back down instead. 

He steps back, still on his knees, almost acting afraid. Hard and confused, my breeches rest down around my ankles. He stares nearly through me, unmoving. I snap, “What? What’s wrong?” 

“I’m not, I don’t think we should right now. You, you…”

His hands wring out nervously, attempting to point to my body. There’s bruises and hickeys and cuts all down my torso. 

My guard remains up regardless of the shame and anger deeply ingrained. “What? Nevermind that, don’t stop now, you can’t just stop…”

His eyes pinch shut and I drop my words mid-sentence. He places a hand on my stomach, thumb sliding over a darker bruise. “It was just a little fight, I’m…”

He opens his mouth again, green eyes glazed over. I place my hand over his. How strange it is that this touch feels more intimate than his body on mine. 

“Let me at least pleasure you, I promise you won’t have to see this.” I shake his hand off my chest, reaching on the bed behind me to replace my shirt. He hasn’t even seen the importance that lies below when I cover up the ugliness in shame. 

He remains naked, kneeling, face twisted in some displeasure or hurt at the strange turn of events. Although I feel the same, I push it down, tracing my hands down his chest now, down and around his flesh. 

I open my mouth and dive down to him when he grabs my face, cock almost between my lips. “Kinloch just let me—”

“—I’m not gonna be another excuse that you hide your struggles from,” he says, brave enough to look into my eyes.

A sharp breath gets lodged in my chest, tight and painful. 

“Laurens. Just, let me, just let me hold you for a while.” 

He rises to his feet and rubs his eyes hurriedly, like I might not see. He pulls back the covers of my small bed for one, squishing himself against the wall as he waits for me. I think I’d rather die on this floor right now. I can’t admit to anyone how strong the urge is. Or how much I hate myself. How much I would do it if I were strong enough. 

Somehow I manage to fail as usual, and somehow he manages to pull me in, arms wrapped snug against my body from behind. I abandon resistance, strange as the situation is. Oh, how much I would rather have him, or have him have me, I wouldn’t care. How much easier it would be to drown in the pleasures of man, the sinful escape of a quick fuck. I’m going to hell anyway, might as well enjoy the sins of the flesh while I’m alive. But to be denied such, it’s strange and new. 

It hurts. 

My face is turned away from his as he holds me from behind, and I’m glad for that little relief. Suppressing every squeak of my throat that threatens to accompany soft tears is more of a challenge than defeating the rush of cruel thoughts. If I could, I think I might shatter every bottle of alcohol I own, break every tobacco pipe I’ve ever smoked, undo every useless fight I’ve started, erase every intentional mark I’ve made on myself, forget every quick meaningless fuck, just to hold onto this moment forever. 

I roll over, embarrassed of the tears that roll down my face, but I give the shame up to a God if He exists, just to see his. “I told you I know you.”


End file.
